


The Center Cannot Hold

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A/B/O, ABO, AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Depression, Knotting, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Hospital, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Vietnam War, draft, how do i keep forgetting that it is the pivotal kink, tell me if i should tag something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12650199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford is shipped off to Vietnam and Stan finally, finally falls apart.





	The Center Cannot Hold

Stan is too sick in the head and too much omega to get drafted. He gets passed over like a moldy piece of bread, but, Stanford. Stanford is a young, virile man. He is working at the newspaper and waiting for the local college to get back to him when he is served. No one in the house is happy. Only their father grunts in approval, as if sending his son to war is a thing to value (Ford’s wages are enough to soothe Pops.). Stan’s mother tries to put up a brave face but her fear bleeds through like ink on gauze. Stan barely makes it back to their room before he’s all over Ford, as if marking him and loving him will keep the war from taking Ford away.

                Stan doesn’t go into heat the same way he used too (it’s still too soon to tell, really, but Stan knows). It’s muted, not as painful, but some things remain. Like, tonight, Stan barely needs any lube because his body is working for him, for once. He’s already slick when he straddles Ford. When he makes eye contact and pushes two fingers into himself. He watches Ford’s pupils bloom, feels Ford’s fingers trail up his thighs and a tentative pressure against his hole. He sighs and relaxes, grinning lazily at Ford, who flushes with his own predatory grin and thrusts a finger into the entrance Stan was trying to loosen. Stan’s two fingers can’t seem to find a rhythm with Ford’s contrary one and it drives Stan insane. When Stan finally finds a rhythm, he shifts his finger to change it. It takes Ford a minute to realizes that Stan is fucking with the rhythm on purpose and when he does, he growls playfully and pulls his finger completely out and Stan swears because, dammit, Ford. Stan tries to add a third finger but Ford grabs his wrist and his predatory smirk softens as he brings Stan’s hand around to Ford’s face. The hand is slack as Ford sucks the slicked fingers into his mouth. Stan is never gonna understand how his shy, nerdy brother is so willing to mouth anything that’s been in Stan’s ass--and Stan’s the one with the brain that goes all sex crazy. Ford sees Stan drifting and nips Stan’s fingertips and Stan jolts just a little.

                “So, uh, I know you don’t got the crazy sex-brain, but, you’re gonna fuck me, right?” Stan says with a waggle of his eyebrows. Ford rolls his own eyes but they crinkle fondly and Stan feels that dumb mixture of adoration and the desperate need to be taken care of. It’s so stupid and Stan hates it when the sex-brain goes away, but right now, he just really, really wants Ford to love the fuck outta him (preferably by fucking the fuck outta him). Ford pulls Stan’s head down to kiss chastely at his forehead and Stan shudders because, fuck, something like that shouldn’t be hot.

                “Don’t pout, Stan.” Ford murmurs and Stan scowls.

                “I ain’t pouting, Sixer, just trying to figure out if yer gonna do yer damn job.” Stan pointedly sits his bare ass on Ford’s dick--it’s not sexy, Ford’s dick is squished to his stomach and Ford makes a hilarious choked sound.

                “Are you going to ride it or break it?” Ford wheezes and Stan lifts just a little and hums like he’s thinking.

                “Ya think if I break it they’ll let ya stay?” Stan tries for light but his damn voice sounds small. Ford frowns and gets that stupid (endearing) soft face that makes his eyes go all sympathetic and sad.

                “Stan--”

                “Nope. Shouldn’a brought it up.” Stan interrupts and pushes himself up, using Ford’s chest as leverage.

                “Stan--”

                “Oh, no, I’m a poor, wet omega. I wish I had a big, strong alpha to help me out” Stan says, a little too loudly. Ford hushes him, eyes darting to the door. Stan rolls his eyes as Ford glares at him. “Seriously, though, Sixer. Ya don’t get moving and we’re gonna have to start over.” Ford’s face shifts into something too lecherous to be Stan’s pointdexter of a brother.

                “I don’t mind you tight, Stan.” Ford’s voice is husky and Stan’s sex-brain decides that, yes, now.

                “Jesus, Ford, you can’t--” Stan stutters and his hips jerk in the air, ass just brushing Ford’s dick. Ford, the smug bastard, chuckles.

                “Stan, we’re Jewish.” Ford puts a hand on Stan’s ass and the other, hopefully, on his dick. Stan looks down to check. E-yup. Sex-brain is primed like the El Diablo and the moment Ford puts his dick in, Stan’s gonna rev and _ride_.

                Ford is slow, like always, like Stan hasn’t walked away from being punched by things bigger and harder than Ford’s dick. (Though, yeah, sex-brain likes the idea of fists and sex and--huh, is Ford’s fist bigger than his knot?) Stan whines, and he still can’t believe he can make these fucking porno noises. Ford groans at that, trying to shush Stan’s noises. Oh, yeah, Ma and Pops are still home. Stan’s sex-brain doesn’t care and... yeah, just sex-brain.

                “Ford--Sixer.” Stan moans as Ford goes deeper. Ford shushes him again. “N--Ford. Ya gonna have to keep me quiet, I can’t.” Stan is panting and he doesn’t even care how stupid and needy he sounds. Ford makes another one of those punched-out groans that Stan can feel _inside his ass_. Stan makes another noise when Ford grabs his hair and tugs Stan down into a filthy, wet kiss. (And Stan is never gonna understand how this gross, sloppy kissing gets his dick so hard and his muscles so soft.) Ford is trying to smother Stan with his mouth and Stan loves it. The angle is wierd, but sex-brain is down for it and when Ford bottoms out and twitches against that sweet spot? Stan goes to fucking town. He breaks the kiss to tongue at Ford’s neck, his shoulder, anything he can reach. Ford starts thrusting and Stan starts riding and when Stan gets too noisy, Ford pulls him in for another lung-sucking kiss. It isn’t long until Ford starts to swell and then, the wonderful idiot, remembers that, oh, yeah, Stan’s got a dick, too, and it feels lonely. (Stan could take care of it himself, but watching Ford’s mortified and guilty face and the frantic hand that tries to make up for lost time--that’s way better than good ol’ righty.) Ford’s swollen and cumming and Stan has to stifle a scream, biting hard at Ford’s neck and that just makes Ford buck, the knot pulls and Stan gasps a pant as he cums, too. It still feels weird, that hot-wet-full feeling. It’s kinda like taking a dump but all wrapped up in sex-brain. Stan groans as he settles on Ford’s chest. He gently scratches Ford’s meager chest hair--seriously, how is this guy an alpha? Stan finds that after the mind-blowing, awesome sex, Ford gets antsy and nervous. So, Stan tries to keep Ford comfortable and calm with soft caresses on the hot and very sensitive skin. Ford hums and cards his fingers through Stan’s hair.

                 “Love you, Stan.” Ford murmurs, the sap. Stan chuckles, a little winded.

                 “Yeah, ditto, ya nerd.” Stan shifts, knees cramping just a little. The knot pulls and they both groan. They’re quiet, just petting each other and waiting.

                “It won’t be that long, Stan,” Ford says and they both know it's a lie. Ford’s shit at lying.

                 “A fucking year, Poindexter.” Stan mumbles and tries to huddle as hard as he can into Ford, pointedly squeezing his ass just to watch Ford squirm.

                 “It--it won’t be that bad. You’ll have Ma and Shermie,” Ford says, a little breathless. Stan scowls.

                 “And you’ll be surrounded by hot guys and exotic babes.” Stan grumbles and immediately regrets it because, Ford’s weird about that. And, yeah, Ford gets tense so Stan gets tense and then Ford leans up and bites Stan’s neck really fucking hard. He yelps and Ford’s other hand slaps over his mouth. When Ford lets go and mouths at the wound that’s gonna bruise one hell of a hickey, he growls.

                 “I don’t know why you think I’m ever going to leave you, Stan.” Stan breathes rapid and shallow through his nose. “How could I leave this?” Ford thrusts his deflating knot up into Stan, who moans. Stan leaks a little and hates how sex-brain starts up again. He mumbles against Ford’s hand. The crazy Ford--Ford’s own version of sex-brain--starts to soften and his hand on Stan’s mouth moves to cup his face. “So, stop saying crazy things, okay?” Stan sighs and nods. The anxiety is still there--he’s not a prize like he coulda been--but he’s sleepy and Ford is slipping outta him with a gross squelch that makes sex-brain light up. Stan moans--because, damn, he’s gonna be sore and damn, he’s filthy, and _damn_ , sex-brain. He’s tired, though, and barely manages to get outta the bed and into the shower. When he comes back, the sheets are clean and Ford is in the top bunk, all innocent and brotherly. Stan snorts and gets into his own bed and tries not to dread tomorrow.

 

 

In true Pines fashion, Ford’s last night isn’t celebrated or emphasized. It’s only Stan and Ford trying to mark each other for a year’s worth of absence and: “They say the war’s almost over, I’ll be back before you know it.”

                When they drop Ford off, one of the officers make a smart remark about Ford needing the extra fingers “because he’d probably lose one or two.”

                Stan doesn’t get to hug his brother because he is forcibly escorted away for punching an officer. Stan feels guilt between the haze of wrath. But, he and Ford really said good-bye last night in a tangle of sheets and heat.

 

 

The months go by and his mother gently tries to get Stan into school or work or anything but moping in his room and starting shit in the streets. He tries, he really does. He tries the night classes but he can’t forget Ford (and, sometimes Goldie hits like a sour note and he’s out for the rest of the day). Ma gets it. She knows that Stan is still grieving (it’s been months since the diner and the hospital and the failure). Stan was okay for a while. It helped, having Ford around. When Ford left and Stan got more morose and listless, Ma chalks it up to grief and missing Ford. Not wrong, but it keeps going. The months drag by and Stan just gets sadder and more reckless.

                Stan skips his suppressants, because, fuck it. He feels like shit and he can’t get pregnant and he never felt this shitty with sex-brain. So, he gets drunk on the cheap whiskey in the house--Ma’s on the phone and Pops fucks off whenever he hears Stan’s ass move. So, Stan makes a shaky beeline for the door.

                Turns out, cops aren’t as shitty as one might think. Stan doesn’t get a block before he’s shoved in a cop car and someone is telling him how dangerous it is for an omega to wander around drunk. Stan cracks a joke. The cops don’t laugh, but they aren’t cruel enough to put him in the drunk tank with the others. They give him his own cell to burn in as sex-brain wars with sad-brain until Stan just starts to cry in frustration and hating himself for every sob.

                He’s released in the morning, hungover and miserable. One of the cops offers to drive him home. Stan thinks of the look on his Pop’s face if he rolls up in a cop car and says yes. He didn’t count on Ma’s face. She looks between furious and devastated. She thanks the officer and then drags Stan in _by the ear_. He’s afraid it’ll fall off. She makes him stand in the kitchen and chews him out until he feels about as small as the baby. _Fuck_ , the baby. Suddenly, Stan is crying. He’s hungover and miserable and now he remembers why. His mother chides him until Stan’s gasping, desperate sobs sound too genuine to be caused by a stint in the drunk tank.

                “Baby, why? What happened?” She asks, cradling him on the kitchen floor. He is too old for this.

                “I jus’--” Stan stumbles over the pain and the grief. He tries to think. His jaw works until he has to swallow the extra spit. “I’m sorry.” He can’t pin his feelings down long enough to talk about them. They skitter like ugly bugs and he’d love to squish every one of them. Ma hugs him, though, so Stan lets them go and snuggles into his Ma’s arms.

                “You’re going through a lot, baby, you’re allowed to be confused.” She says and Stan shakes his head because he knows what he wants. He wants Ford here, beside him. He wants his unborn daughter. He wants his fucking Pops to look at him and see a person, not a filthy stray Ma decides to keep around. Ma shushes him so Stan stops squirming and just goes limp and miserable. When they part ways Stan feels no better, but he got his Ma to smile, so he rests just a little easier. It’s impossible to sleep well without Ford.

 

They try talk therapy. They try outpatient therapy. But a year goes by and then two and Ford is gone. (His platoon went missing, we’re so sorry for your loss.) Stan loses it--but he doesn’t know what _it_ is. It’s like the color is drained from his life and everything moves far too slow. Finally, he is committed wholly and truly. If Stan could feel enough to care, he’d...well, he’d _care_. But he has lost his child, his brother, his alpha, his _life_. Stan feels little and when he does, he wishes he didn’t. The brief flashes of pain sear like a brand and leave him wounded for days.

                Everyone chalks it up to two traumatic losses in a short amount of time. Sometimes, when Ma visits and Stan is still lucid before the drugs kick in, he can see her sad, conflicted, understanding eyes and he realizes, each time like it’s an epiphany, that she knows. She had always known. In those lucid moments Stan reaches for his mother and clings. Sometimes he cries, sometimes he stares at the steel table top, just gone. Sometimes:

                 “Do you hate me, Ma?”

                 “Oh, baby, never.”

                Each time he is pried from his Ma and escorted back to his “room.”

                Stan is put on suicide watch. He can’t have shoes, nothing sharper than a softball, and--in the truly desperate moments when sex-brain becomes death-brain, he is restrained fully. It’s humiliating having some bored nurse pull down his pants so he can shit himself while cuffed to a bed. The humiliation just makes him want _out_ faster.

                They try pill after pill after pill. Some work--for a while--and some make Stan feel like shit. It’s like playing rubes--put out lines and see what the sickness will catch. When they find the right meds, they feed Stan’s busted nut until he’s “better.” He still feels like shit, but not death-brain shit. Eventually, they discharge him. His mother is proud and takes him to get pancakes. Stan is jumpy and nervous with the still-new noises and smells. Ma just grabs his shoulder or rubs his arm when he gets nervous. Stan remembers Ford doing that, too. It hurts, but it feels like an aching joint more than a broken one.

 

In retrospect, it’s hilarious that a bunch of exhausted POWs were able to move faster than the goddamn post office. The get the letter informing them that Ford’s platoon was found and were sent home _two_ days after Ford arrives on the pawn shop doorstep.

 

Stan is the one that hears the knock on the door. Ma has the baby, a toddler now, and Pops’s fucked off, as he does. So, Stan hauls his sorry ass to the door. It’s late and he’s tired and someone better have something worth a damn if they’re trying to pawn it at this hour. So, Stan grumbles and opens the door to tear this asshole a new one when he freezes and time stops. Because.

                It’s Ford. He hair is longer and he has sideburns that frame a face that is clean lines and square jaw. He looks older, a little haggard, his glasses have a crack on the left lens and he has the beginnings of a five-o-clock shadow. He’s in full military dress uniform with a worn duffle bag and when he sees Stan he beams like he’s seen the sun.

                Stan starts to hyperventilate. Ford is _gone_. Ford can’t be here, they lost Ford, Stan spent hours and hours of letting people convince him to let Ford go and Ford _can’t be here_ because he’s dead somewhere in the goddamn jungle and--oh, shit. Stan’s lost _it_ , again. He’s hallucinating. He’s so desperate and broken that he’s making up his own brother and--

                Stan’s ears are ringing and he feels lightheaded when he hits the ground, arms wrapping around himself, guarding his vulnerable middle (and it’s been years but he still misses the baby, fuck, fuck, the baby, _fuck_ ). He can’t get enough air even though he’s breathing fast and he can only just hear “Ford’s” panicked voice and Ma’s question and gasp and she’s crying and it’s too much. Stan thinks he’s going to pass out--that his body is so sick of this shit that it’s gonna boot his brain right to the curb. He flinches violently when he feels someone touch his shoulder, stroke his face. He slowly starts to understand that the hands belong to his Ma and she is talking to him.

                “It’s okay, baby, breathe, it’s gonna be okay.” She’s rubbing his back, holding him. “Stanford, baby, could you get your brother a glass of water?” Stan jerks back and looks at his Ma.

                “You can see him, too?” Stan asks, breathless and desperate, still breathing hard. Ma looks confused and then slowly understands.

                “Of course, sweetie, he’s real. Your brother’s back. I don't know how but he's here.” She soothes and Stan’s head snaps to look at Ford, who is standing awkward and hurt, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. Stan counts his fingers. Nothing got blown off. The relief and the anguish and the joy get thrown in a mixer and spit out hurt rage. Stan shoots outta his Ma’s arms and grabs Ford by his perfect, starched lapels and starts to scream.

                “Where th’ fuck ‘ave ya been, Ford? Huh? Thought you was dead--” And Stan gets cut off by a sharp punch the face and as he falls he watches Ford reach for a gun he doesn’t have and the rage just burns up brighter. It’s better than the deep, deep hurt. Stan scowls and Ford’s face dawns in horror.

                “Oh, God, Stanley I didn't mean to--I’m sorry, you just--” Ford is stammering and can’t seem to settle, his eyes are flicking to the side, a little too bright. Stan is shaking and Ford is shaking and then.

                “Alright, kitchen, now!” Ma barks and they both jump. Ford swiftly makes a beeline for the kitchen while Stan lingers on the floor, trying to get his shit together. His Ma lets him pick himself up like a man and march to his execution. Ford is sitting at the table, perfectly still and eyes closed. Ma’s put on a pot to boil. Stan stands in the doorway. Ma takes a deep breath, turns. “Stanford, come here.” She says and Ford quickly gets up and obeys. Ma looks him over and then flings her arms around him, hugging him tight and, to Stan’s horror, her breath hitches. “Oh, my baby, my baby boy. I thought--oh, God, Stanford you were gone.” She’s quietly crying and Ford is trying to shush her, soothe her. His eyes look wet but his composure doesn’t break. Stan’s does.

                Stan wraps his thick arms around both of them and squeezes, Ford stiffens and his head snaps to stare blankly at Stan, but their mother is still babbling and Ford gradually relaxes. Stan buries his head into Ford’s neck.

                Ma eventually pulls away and just stares wetly at the them before taking another deep breath and steeling her expression into a fond smile.

                “You boys take a seat. I’ll get ya drinks.” She starts to busy herself, pulling out mugs, lemons, honey, and whiskey. Ford takes the same seat as before. Stan is still staring at his brother--he’s gotten so thin and lean. Stan is reminded of three years ago--sleeping in the El Diablo.

                “Are you hungry?” He blurts out, immediately regretting it, a least the awkwardness of it. Ford startles but then relaxes into a small smile.

                “I... could eat something, yes.” He says softly and Stan scurries to the fridge to cover his embarrassment. They’ve got bread, cheese--Ma’s quiche! Stan pulls it out and clumsy cuts a slice. It crumbles into a kind of scrambled mess when he puts it on the plate. He puts it down too forcefully and it’s loud. He looks nervously away from Ford’s fond smile and sees a similar expression on his Ma’s. He scowls and hunches over.

                “Thank you, Stan.” Ford says and reaches out to eat the quiche with his hands.

                “Stan, get your brother a fork.” She says over her shoulder and Stan mentally smacks himself. Ford accepts the fork and when he takes a bite of the quiche he smothers a moan. It goes to straight to Stan’s dick because Stan’s sex-brain is starting to wake up. “Good?” Ma asks with just a small smirk.

                “Mom, I’ve been eating the same gruel for months. This is _divine_.” Ford says, so sincere that Stan hurts. He pulls a chair around to sit as close to Ford as possible, trying to leech as much heat and _Ford_ as he can. This still might be a vivid hallucination; he mighta never left the psych ward. Ma hums but doesn’t pry--she’s good like that. She measures out three mugs of the hot toddies, generous with the whiskey. She places one in front of Ford, who is nearly licking his plate, and one in front of Stan. She keeps the third and sits across from them. Instead of drinking, she reaches out both of her hands. Stan gladly takes it, Ford does, too.

                “Oh, my sweet boys. I’m so happy to have you both here again.” She grips both hands and they sit like that until the front door opens and bangs shut. Ford stands and spins, on high alert and hand twitching. Stan recognizes the twitchiness from some of the veterans at the hospital. He feels...sad. He wants to reach out and steady Ford but Pops chooses that moment to enter the kitchen, smelling like booze and cigars. He freezes when he sees Ford and Ford does the same. They have a strange standoff and Ford breaks it.

                “Hi, dad.” Ford’s voice cracks a little. Pops grunts and, slowly but steadily, reaches out and grabs Ford’s shoulder. They stay like that a moment before Pops squeezes.

                “I’m glad you’re back, son.” He says and then leaves. Just like that. Stan is torn between shock and rage, but in the end, Ford just turns and sits back down, so Stan relaxes. Ma joins them and they sip their drinks.

                “Sorry for hitting you earlier.” Ford says outta nowhere. Stan shoots him a look and shrugs.

                “Shouldn’t ‘ave gotten in yer space like that.” Ford smiles tightly. Ma sighs and when Stan turns to look at her, she’s all soft, fond smiles. She gets up and places her mug in the sink.

                “I’m going to check on your father.” She walks over and gently takes Ford’s head in her hands. She kisses his forehead. “Oh, my sweet Stanford.” She murmurs and kisses his forehead, again. “Good night, babies.” And with that, she leaves them.

                The tension suddenly intensifies. Stan feels warm--warmer than the cooling toddy accounts for. Ford is giving him this unreadable look and Stan stands too suddenly and Ford flinches. Stan quickly takes his mug to the sink. He starts to clean it, hears Ford get up, too. And then there are lips at the nape of his neck. Stan melts into a putty of Stan goo, moaning as Ford wraps his arms around his waist.

                “I missed you, Stanley.” He whispers into Stan’s hair and, yep, sex-brain is back from vacation, suppressants be damned. “So, so much.” Stan whimpers and hates it.

                “You were dead, Ford.” Stan whispers back, shaking just a little. Ford kisses under Stan’s ear.

                “I’m sorry.” He says and one of his hands slides down to Stan’s stomach--shirtdamp from being pushed into the sink. Stan starts panting softly as sex-brain decides that clean mugs are stupid when a hot, present Stanford is pressing--well, it ain’t a gun.

                “Sixer, unless yer gonna fuck me over the counter, ya gotta stop.” Stan manages and Ford’s hips jerk and Stan’s own dick is pushed into the counter. It’s not a good feeling. “Fuck, ow.”

                “Sorry.” Ford says, actually sounding sorry. He pulls back and Stan is almost annoyed and turns to tell Ford, but. Holy Moses, Ford’s eyes are blown, his face is red, and his dress uniform is getting rumpled. Stan is going to _wreck_ that.

                “Bed. Now.” Stan says and grabs Ford by the sleeve as he passes, pulling Ford along. It’s a blur up the stairs and into their bedroom and, they don’t make it to the bed because Stan pulls Ford too hard and they both go down with an “ack!” and “shit!” They don’t waste time. Stan shucks his t-shirt and Ford starts to unbutton his coat. Stan sheds his pants. Ford unbuttons his dress shirt and removes his tie. Stan ditches his boxers. Ford is taking off his undershirt. Stan snarls, and lunges for Ford’s pants, tugging roughly at the shiny buckle. “Why the hell ya got so many fucking layers?” He demands and Ford laughs, helping Stan get the rest off.

                They both regard each other in silence--just looking at their changed bodies. Ford is leaner with broader legs. Stan is hairier with wider shoulders. Both have unfamiliar scars and--

                “Ford, what the fuck is that?” Stan demands, staring at a damning tattoo on Ford’s hip. It’s a cartoon star and it says something, but Stan can’t read it without his glasses. He can see Ford’s whole body go red, though.

                “It’s not important, Stanley.” He snaps, all snooty and self-important. Stan is grinning ear to ear, way too fucking pleased.

                “I dunno, Ford. I mean, a star like you--” Ford groans and falls backward, covering his face with his hands. Stan cackles and crawls over him. “--should always be important.” He murmurs and kisses Ford’s hands where they cover his face. Ford groans again and peeks between his fingers and Stan grins. “Com’on, Ford. Ain’t seen ya for years.” Stan’s voice almost cracks on the last word.

                Ford reaches his hands out and puts them into Stan’s hair, one cradling the back of his skull, the other pulling him down by his neck. Ford kisses him softly and Stan whines--damnit, years, and he still sounds like a little bitch. Ah, fuck it. Stan take the kiss from zero to sixty and Ford groans. Stan chases that, licking and nipping. His hands are everywhere on Ford, mapping new scars and muscles. Sex-brain isn’t down for the foreplay, so Stan reaches down and gropes Ford’s dick and balls and Ford bucks hard enough that Stan has to grab Ford’s shoulder and still lands an elbow on the floor. It stings, but he’s laughing into Ford’s chest and he hears Ford’s indignant huff. Stan mouths at a nipple in apology and Ford’s breath kinda stutters and it’s interesting to feel that this intimately. Ford’s hands are in his hair and pulling. Stan follows them up to Ford’s mouth. Ford moves his hands to Stan’s ass and uses his fucking abs and thick thighs to _pick Stan up_ , what the fuck. He lobs Stan onto the bed and Stan is so fucking gone, he knows he looks stupidly smitten but, damn. Sixer got fucking _fit_. Ford crawls over Stan and kisses him, roughly, and Stan goes wild with it. Ford is nipping and licking and making sounds like low growls and sex-brain is so, so onboard right now.

                For the first time in years, Stan feels himself getting good and wet. He moans; he needs to tell Ford this.

                “Goddamn, Sixer, ain’t been this wet in years.” Stan says with a laugh and Ford makes a sound like a snarl and whine. He shoves into Stan’s neck and bites, not too hard, but Stan writhes anyway. Ford sucks and nibbles along Stan’s neck, to his ear. He bites the lobe, gently.

                “I’m gonna fuck you, Stan.” He says, like it's a revelation and a secret. Stan laughs, again.

                “Kinda hoping you would, Sixer.” And Stan smiles at Ford’s scowling exasperation. Still, Ford evidently meant now and reaches down and _into Stan_. “Ow, fuck, Sixer, slow down.” Stan smacks at Ford’s arm when he shoves the two fingers in. Ford gives him a bewildered look, like: ‘But, Stanley, we always do it this way, why are you being illogical?’ Stan sighs and tries to relax. “It’s been a minute, Sixer. Coupla years.” Stan closes his eyes but feels Ford hiss a breath. The hand that was resting on Ford’s arm tightens and, oh, that’ll bruise. Ford flinches and stares tightly at nothing. Stan takes a deep breath--remember therapy--and swears. It’s filthy enough to make Ford flinch.

                 “We share the same mother.” He says weakly. Stan smacks his arm, again, maybe a little hard.

                 “Okay. Sex now; words later.” Stan grabs Ford’s hair and forces Ford’s eyes to meet his. “Better make yer apology good, Ford.” Stan says with a bit of a nasty leer. Ford shoves forward, his whole body connects clumsily with Stan. His fingers are moving faster and scissoring and Stan is swearing into Ford’s mouth and Ford’s free hand is everywhere, groping fat and muscle and making Stan’s whole body feel too tight and hot. Ford grabs at Stan’s shoulder to try and turn him over but Stan shoves it away with a glare. “Nope. Years, Ford. Wanna see yer face when you’re inside _me_.” Stan reaches down to grab Ford’s dick. It’s wet with precum and Stan’s own slick where Ford has been subtly humping Stan’s ass. Ford snarls, grabs Stan’s wrist and forces it away, trying to push his dick into Stan. “Woah, hey, Ford, slow down.” Ford is tense and vibrating; He’s glaring at Stan, one hand still clutching Stan’s wrist way too hard. Stan glares back. It’s the wrong move, apparently. Ford reaches down and shoves three fingers in and it is not a _good time_. Not a bad time, but it’s way rougher that Stan’s used to and he puts a hand to Ford’s chest and pushes in token resistance. Ford is saying something--low and dark and Stan’s sex-brain is loving this but Stan is, well, not _scared_ , but something.

                 “I told you.” Ford says with a twist and _push_. “I will never leave you.” Ford pull-push-pulls and Stan stifles the stupid porno scream that is so at odds with his feelings right now. “I only thought of you.” Ford twitches and takes the hand from Stan’s wrist to grab Stan’s dick instead. Stan shoves the free arm into his mouth. “How hot and wet and _needy_ you get just for me.” Ford contorts and _bends_ , the bastard, and lick’s little Stan’s little head. Stan’s gonna leave a mark on his own damn arm at this point. “Why would I ever want someone else, Stan?” Ford kisses the tip softly. “I’d never leave you like that.” He whispers hotly.

                 “Then why’d ya do it, Ford?” Stan doesn’t realize he’s talking and crying but he is. He’s staring up and he feels Ford still, Ford’s weird, alpha sex-brain stalling. “You were gone, Ford. You were--you--” Stan chokes.

                 “Stan--”

                 “No, shaddup. You were dead, Ford. We were gonna _bury you_ , Ford.” Stan can’t look at Ford but he can hear his brother’s voice hitch. “I was in a fuckin’ psych ward and you were off fucking some other asshole!” Stan glares at Ford and takes in Ford’s stricken, hurt, frustrated expression.

                 “Stan, it wasn’t like that--it was different there—you were--”

                 “Save it, Ford.” Stan groans, because he’s hurt and angry and sex-brain is _still there_. (And, somewhere in his head, Stan realizes that he is having a heart-to-heart with Ford’s fingers _in his ass_.) “I don’t wanna fight.” Stan reaches down and Ford grabs his hand--damn, Stan missed those six fingers encasing his own perfectly. He looks at Ford again, meets his eyes. “Just prove you’re real, Ford. I don’ wanna wake up.” Ford makes a wounded noise, tucks his face into Stan’s neck. Stan grabs a pillow to shove under his hips and wraps his legs around Ford’s waist. Ford’s gently nuzzling Stan’s neck. He finally slides his fingers free and Stan can’t help the hitch of his breath. Ford starts to slowly and gently move himself into Stan, one hand on his own dick and the other trembling just slightly next to Stan’s head. “Easy, easy.” Stan whispers and Ford grunts and groans, his hips stuttering with the slow, slow pace. Eventually, Ford is in and sheathed fully. Stan sighs and Ford shudders. Then, Stan grabs Ford’s face again, forcing Ford to look him in the eye. Ford groans and Stan must really look like something. Sex-brain approves. “Now fuck me like ya mean it, Ford. And ya better not think o’ no one else.” Ford’s eyes darken and, oh jeez. Stan knew Ford had always been careful and holding back, but _fuck_. Stan was gonna feel this for weeks because Ford is brutal. He’s fast and deep and hard and Stan is taking everything with enthusiasm, alternating between chewing his arm to keep quiet and dragging Ford into messy, toothy kisses. Ford seems gone, just relentless and Stan is cumming before he can comprehend what the hell is happening and Ford is swelling and sex-brain is screaming because, _finally_. Stan goes boneless with the sex and, fuck, Ford’s home. Stan’s crying again. He vaguely feels Ford come down and murmur something, then, more panicked:

                 “Stan? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” And Stan can see Ford’s blurry concern through his tears and he laughs wetly and grabs Ford by the hair, forcing Ford’s forehead onto his. It’s too hard, but Stan just sighs and tries to control his breathing.

                 “F-fuck, F-f--uh-Ford. Y-you’re r-really h-here.” Stan stutters between his sobs. Ford softens and cradles Stan’s skull in turn, kissing lightly at his forehead, eyebrows, cheeks. Stan just clings, whole body from balls to bones, as Ford shushes and soothes. “I-huh missed you s-so m-m-much.” Stan can’t stop. Ford cradles him and Stan thinks, twenty-four hours ago his brother was dead and now Ford’s not going anywhere because he’s _locked_ into Stan’s body. Stan’s body spasms and clenches around Ford at the thought. Ford grunts and holds Stan tighter.

                 “I’m here, Stan. I’m never leaving.” Ford murmurs into Stan’s hair.

                 “You better fuckin’ not.” Stan growls, tears tapering. “It’s been hell without ya.”

                 “Yeah.” Ford’s able to slip out now and does. Stan shivers and sighs, that awful, wonderful, gross feeling of jizz trickling outta his ass as satisfying and confusing as always. “It really has.”

                They linger in satiated silence, sex-brain has shut down and Stan’s able to think. And feel.

                 “Fuck, Ford, you’re heavy.” Stan pushes at his brother. Ford puffs out a laugh. “Seriously, I’m sticky and gross and I can’t breathe.” Ford rolls his eyes and his body, letting Stan take in an exaggerated breath. He sits up and--oh, hell, that’s gonna hurt tomorrow. “Fuuuck, you did a number on my ass.” Stan groans. Ford looks over, concerned.

                 “Did I hurt you?” Ford’s eyebrows are doing the stupidly adorable scrunch. Stan needs to stop that before he does something stupid.

                 “Only in the best ways, Sixer.” He leers and, hell, Ford blushes. “Seriously, how does that make ya blush when yer jizz is leakin’ outta my ass?”

                 “Oh my, God, Stan, shut up.” Ford groans, hiding behind his hands. Stan laughs and stands cautiously and pops his back. Ford peeks through his hands again. Stan smirks and stretches his arms above his head and immediately doubles over.

                 “Ow, fuck, yeah. I ain’t sitting at breakfast tomorrow.” He grimaces before straightening. “Whelp. Shower time.” He feels a hand on his arm and looks curiously at Ford.

                 “Can I come with you?” Ford looks kinda vulnerable.

                 “I can’t go another round t’night, Ford” Ford, dammit, blushes. He’s too fuckin’ bashful.

                 “No, I mean, just shower. Together.” And Stan gets it, because he’s scared that if he leaves this room--if he takes his eyes off Ford that his brother will disappear.

                 “...yeah. I need someone to wash my back anyway.” Stan shrugs and grabs his shirt and boxers. Ford meets him in the bathroom. And, they actually just shower together, barely touching, just luxuriating in warm water and clean soap. They dry off, sneak back their room like they're twelve and not twenty. They change the sheets. They have the same idea, because Ford crawls right into Stan’s bed and Stan follows. Ford’s feet are cold and Stan feels his arm start to cramp, but he’s barely settled before Ford’s grabs him and hums. Stan doesn’t snuggle but he does cozy into Ford’s space. He doesn’t think he can sleep after a day like this but Ford’s breathing rhythmically beside him and he’s warming the cocoon of blankets and Stan feels himself drift off peacefully for the first time in years.

                Ford is back and Stan’ll be damned if he ever leaves again.

 

Stan is woken violently when Ford springs awake with a choked scream, breathing hard. Stan startles and tumbles to the floor. The movement makes Ford jump and crouch on the bed, eyes wild and rolling. Stan scrambles away, staring at Ford with fear and concern. Ford is panting and backs into the corner where the headboard meets the wall. He’s shaking and Stan slowly gets to his feet.

                “Ford?” He asks quietly as he cautiously approaches. Ford doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to even know he’s there. Stan reaches out, hesitates, then gently places a hand on Ford’s shoulder.

                The next moment, Stan is on the floor with Ford snarling on top of him, arm on his throat, the other hand flailing around, looking for something, anything. When he finds nothing, he leans into his arm and Stan starts to choke, pushing at Ford’s chest, his arms. Ford is strong and barely budges. Stan starts to wheeze, heart pounding and lungs seizing. He’s starting to fade; black spots are splotching over Ford’s face. His arms fall limply at his side. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his eyes start to drop when the pressure is gone. He sucks in huge lungsful of air, coughing wetly. He rolls to his side, worried he might puke and catches sight of Ford.

                He looks terrified. He’s frozen in shock before rushing to Stan’s side. Stan flinches and tries to move away but he’s too damn winded and limp. Ford looks heartbroken.

                “Oh, God, Stan. I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. Fuck, I--” Ford chokes and his eyes are rolling around. He’s breathing too hard. Stan tries to get up; his body is so sore and his throat is burning. He reaches out to his brother, Ford twitches, looks guilty, looks panicked.

                “Ford.” Stan’s voice cracks and he coughs again.

                “I--I’ll get you water.” Ford rushes to stand.

                “No, Ford, ple--” Stan coughs again. Ford seems to steel himself and calm.

                “I’ll...I’ll be quick. You need water.” And Ford is gone and Stan feels so confused and scared. It feels like an eternity as he tries to catch his breath, massaging his throat. Ford comes back and slowly walks over to Stan before kneeling. Stan takes the water with shaking hands. “I’m so sorry.” Ford whispers and hesitantly lifts his hands. “Can I--can I touch you?” He asks. Stan puts the glass on the floor and nods. Ford gently hugs him, still shaking--they both are. “I’m so sorry, I don’t--I’m sorry.” Ford’s voice is cracking. He isn’t crying but it sounds like he wants to.

                “S’okay, Si’er.” Stan rasps and Ford shakes his head.

                “I could have killed you.” His voice is so small. Stan tries to tighten the hug.

                “You woul’n have.” Ford shakes his head again. “Le’s go back a’ bed.” Ford tenses.

                “I think...I should sleep in my bed.” Ford begins to withdraw from their embrace. Now Stan shakes his head.

                “No, I. Ford I wan’.” The words won’t come. Ford sighs.

                “Fine, I’ll...I lay with you until you fall asleep.” Stan nods, accepts the compromise. Ford helps him into bed but lays on top of the covers. Stan still reaches out to him, holds Ford as close as he can.

                “Love ya, si’er.” Stan mumbles into Ford’s chest. He feels Ford’s breath hitch.

                 “Me, too, Stan.” Ford kisses the top of Stan’s head and Stan feels sleep pull him down, the adrenaline and exhaustion is too much for him. Ford rubs his back and hums into his hair. Stan is still afraid, not of Ford but _for_ Ford, but he feels safe and loved. He’s scared of the hard road they’re going to face; he’s scared of all the fuck ups and hurt. But, he has his brother back. He has Ford back and, maybe, everything will be okay, now.

**Author's Note:**

> All aboard the Trauma Train! Chu-chu!.
> 
> I've realized that I'm kinda hitting pivotal canon points in the GF universe, like, Stan gets kicked out, Ford goes missing, (and Fiddleford is completely bonkers off-screen.) So, whelp.
> 
> Also, it ain't one of my GF fics if somebody ain't offered a glass of water. It's the Ma Pines way! If water don't work, try whiskey.
> 
> Title from 'The Second Coming' by Y. B. Yeats because Chinua Achebe already claimed 'Things Fall Apart'.


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